


You Won't Go Lonely

by starksnack, Withstarryeyes



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Fainting, Flu, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Steve Rogers, Sick Character, Sick Tony, Sick Tony Stark, Steve Rogers Feels, Tony Feels, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 04:32:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19760659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starksnack/pseuds/starksnack, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Withstarryeyes/pseuds/Withstarryeyes
Summary: Fic swap with Starksnack! She wrote the dialogue and I wrote the fic around the conversation she gave me...For all its worth, Tony thinks he’s telling the truth. There may be a lecture after this, but for now, Tony drinks the broth and lets Steve feed him crackers. Lets Steve fluff his pillows and read by his side while he dozes on Steve’s shoulder. Before Steve clicks off the lamp, Tony pulls on Steve’s collar. Steve dips down to Tony’s nose and listens as Tony tells him he didn’t mean to get sick. “Bruce says I have a compromised immune system because of the arc reactor.” Steve just nods and rubs his shoulder down. Tony thinks his fever must’ve spiked. He never apologizes about being sick, never complains about it not being his fault, never blames it on Bruce. But he feels awful and his dreams keep replaying the simmering rage in Steve’s eyes, the cut tone to his voice when Tony coughs too hard and sends Steve into a nervous breakdown.Steve presses a kiss into the crown of Tony’s head before he drops off.





	You Won't Go Lonely

“Tony, I’m serious.” 

Tony peeks his head out of the shower, shampoo foam thick on his head. Steve is standing with his arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line, white and pale against his face. He looks angry and Tony ducks to cough into his elbow. The steam from the shower is only helping so much and his legs are begging for him to sit down. The water’s not cold yet and Tony doesn’t want to give in, give up. He can’t be sick, he doesn’t want to be and when Tony doesn’t want something to be real he pretends it isn’t.

“Hi serious, I’m Tony.” The spray is agonizing against his itchy, tight body, needles driving into sun-bruised skin. He stays under it anyway, cold to his bones. He’s shaking but he doesn’t let himself sit down. 

The curtain pulls back and Tony sips in a gasp at the sudden chill that cuts right through the steam. Steve’s stripped bare of his top, down to his underwear and socks. He pulls those off and then the boxers and climbs in, pulling the curtain closed. He presses against Tony’s back and he wilts into him. 

“You have to go to the doctor. Or at least see Bruce.” Steve rubs his fingers through Tony’s hair and coaxes the remaining shampoo out. Tony sags, even more, eyes dragging. His knees are unlocked, threatening to go. But he won’t give in. 

He takes some of his weight back, grabs the bar of soap and begins to lather. “Steve, I promise, I’m fine.” The sigh he gets in reply skids up Tony’s body right to his brain and his headache picks back up, thumping against his temples. His throat is a beehive, sticky and buzzing and he coughs again into the steam, dragging in humid air to start again. Steve presses his hand against the small of his back and rubs. 

“That’s what you said a week ago, but I can’t take it anymore.”

“It’s not that bad,” His voice cracks, he slips and Steve catches him easy in his arms, taking in all his weight and sits on the shower floor. Tony shuts his eyes and listens to the water drop as he regains his balance. Steve is threading his fingers through his hair and pressing kisses into the back of his neck. Steve reaches one long leg out and pushes the dial back to lukewarm. Tony mewls back in his throat at the invasion of cool water. 

“You sneezed on me while we were having sex.”

He thinks about last night, and how well it had been going. How well it went until Tony’s arms had gone limp and dropped him into Steve’s chest, lungs brimming with mucus. No air, no thoughts, Steve’s startled concern. Tony had sneezed on him, a couple dozen of times and Steve had flipped him over, told him they’d continue when he was better. It’s a good incentive, Tony knows. “Fine. I’ll go see Bruce, but I think you’re overreacting.”

He does see Bruce, he sees him once Steve gets him out of the shower, carrying him in his arms and toweling him dry on their bed. Well, actually, Bruce comes to see him, once Steve has helped Tony into a pair of old sweatpants and tucked him into bed and the simple act of the shower has drained Tony of every ounce of strength that he has. He falls asleep on the sheets before Bruce gets there and gets woken up by the cold press of a stethoscope. Bruce looks concerned, a little green around the edges, and its enough to light up Tony’s stomach with concern. He’d gotten pneumonia a few years prior and it hadn’t been fun. Weeks of waking up half-drugged and gasping for air. 

It’s just the flu, though, and Bruce tells him to rest, dragging Steve out into the hall to tell him how to take care of Tony. Tony drifts off to sleep. 

When he wakes, Steve has broth in a mug and a small plate of crackers. Tony aches all over, deep into his muscles. He hasn’t felt this bad since he got thrown into a wall last Christmas fighting a doom bot. Steve helps him sit up and presses the lip of the mug to Tony’s lips. Salty vapor clings to the back of his throat as he inhales. “Aren’t you going to say I told you so?” Tony asks and the words come out more wounded than he means. 

“No, Tony, “ Steve’s voice is soft and his eyes are concerned. Tony thinks he could sit all day and just stare into them, watch them swirl with simmering anger at Tony’s blatant lack of concern about himself, cooled only by Steve’s need to help him, “I think the flu makes you miserable enough.”

For all its worth, Tony thinks he’s telling the truth. There may be a lecture after this, but for now, Tony drinks the broth and lets Steve feed him crackers. Lets Steve fluff his pillows and read by his side while he dozes on Steve’s shoulder. Before Steve clicks off the lamp, Tony pulls on Steve’s collar. Steve dips down to Tony’s nose and listens as Tony tells him he didn’t mean to get sick. “Bruce says I have a compromised immune system because of the arc reactor.” Steve just nods and rubs his shoulder down. Tony thinks his fever must’ve spiked. He never apologizes about being sick, never complains about it not being his fault, never blames it on Bruce. But he feels awful and his dreams keep replaying the simmering rage in Steve’s eyes, the cut tone to his voice when Tony coughs too hard and sends Steve into a nervous breakdown. 

Steve presses a kiss into the crown of Tony’s head before he drops off. 

He manages to evade Steve in the morning long enough to get to the bathroom. He brushes his teeth and his hair and uses the bathroom before his legs fail him and he clings to the counter in an effort to stay up. It doesn’t work and he falls, his knees clacking against the tiles with his full weight. Steve runs in and Tony listens to the comforting thump of his footsteps. “Oh, Tony,” a sigh, “I’m sorry” a pat on his shoulder, “come here,” and Tony does, pressing into Steve’s outstretched arms. 

“Is this the part where you satisfy my every whim and fancy because I am a damsel in distress?” He’s delirious, eyes sticky with fever and chest dense with congestion. But the joke’s out of his lips before he can help it and its worth it because the guilt in Steve’s posture extinguishes and Tony thinks its the best thing he’s seen in a while. The defeated slope of Steve’s shoulder shifting to something more angry, more authoritative. He pulls away, crosses his arms and scowls. Tony blinks. 

“No, this is the part where I tuck you into bed and make you soup.”

That sounds nice, but Tony can’t make it easy, can’t give in. He’s been sleeping for a while. He wants to do something, release the pressure his brain is building up. He can feel the energy pressing against his temples like a dog pulling on a leash. He smirks up at Steve, “We’re going to bed? In the middle of the day?”

“Not like that, Tony.” Steve tries to look disappointed, but the words are muted, and Tony turns his gaze to the patterned tiles. There’s dirt caked in the grout. He needs to do a deep clean in here. 

“You’re no fun,” he whines, pouting like a four-year-old. Steve pulls him back into his arms and Tony groans. His muscles are so sore. 

Steve tucks him into bed and turns the TV on, the volume low. Tony likes the noise in the background, likes the old theme songs and buzzing static. 

“Fun isn’t going to make you get better faster.” More broth. Pressing against his mouth, waiting for him to tag a drag. He does and Steve makes a contented hum in the back of his throat. Tony’s heart sings at the praise. 

“I hate it when you’re right.” But he doesn’t. He  _ so doesn’t _ . Because Steve being right is Steve looking after him, caring for him. He’d give up his right arm to have this all the time. This...proof of how wanted he is. How loved he is. 

“Really? It’s crazy that you love me if you’re hating me all the time.”

The sarcasm thrills Tony and he lets it blow out the chill in his bones. “Shut up, Steve,” no genuine bite to statement. Steve scoffs and presses against Tony’s side, book in his hands. 

“You love me,” Steve sing-songs and Tony growls but curls closer into Steve’s side. He smells like cherries and Vick's vapor rub. Tony needles his nose into Steve’s armpit until Steve gives in and drapes his arm across Tony’s back. 

“You know I do,” his voice is husky and wet. 

They sit like that for a while, Tony dropping in and out, Steve flipping the pages of his book. The next time Tony opens his eyes the sun is low on the horizon, bleeding pinks and oranges out from the blacktop of the city. Steve presses a kiss to the crown of Tony’s head and Tony shuts his eyes against it, buzzing. “Just wait here while I make you soup. My ma used to make it all the time when I was sick as a kid.”

“Well, ma Rogers did always know best,” Tony says, wanting to add on  _ her son does too.  _

Tony tries to drop off again, but his bladder is pressing uncomfortably against his abdomen and he knows he has to get up. He uses the bedframe to hoist himself up and shuffles into the bathroom. The trip leaves him winded and he sits as he releases the pressure in his bladder, coughing loudly into his elbow. Steve knocks the door in with his foot and sets the tray down next to the empty bed

“Here’s your soup… “ he pauses and looks around, “Tony? Where did you go?”

“Gosh darn Captain America and his mother-henning. I am  _ not _ sick,” Tony jokes but he has another coughing fit and his vision fizzles out. He comes back to his senses with Steve rubbing his back. Tony lets Steve lift him from the toilet, washing his hands and guiding him back to bed. He hates this, hates being this weak, hates having to rely on Steve. Even if the constant attention awakens some childhood want that went severely neglected. 

He’s stir crazy by the next morning. Steve’s gone, Tony thinks he must be on a run because the sun is just rising and Steve’s side of the bed is still a little warm. He needs to stretch his legs and Steve’s steady influx of soup and water have given him a little energy. He goes to the balcony off of the bedroom and peers over. 

It must be a workday, there are people in business suits catching taxis with lattes in their hands and teenagers skateboarding towards the school on their block. When his legs get tired of holding him up, Tony sits and presses his forehead against the glass, counting the cars that go past and taking in lungfuls of the cool morning air. 

“Tony!” Steve calls from down the hall and Tony waves an arm into the room, directing Steve here. “What are you doing out here? You’re supposed to be resting,” Steve asks but he sits next to Tony anyway with a cup of coffee. The smell isn’t overly appetizing to Tony. He desperately wants a cup of tea. 

“Well, you know what they say, fresh air cures all,” Tony counts half a dozen more red cars while Steve drains his mug, rubbing his hand up and down Tony’s back. 

Steve gives him a half-hour out there; until Tony’s eyes are dragging again. He wants a shower, gritty with salt and feeling dirt caked into his hair. But he’s too tired. Steve tries to goad him back inside on his own but Tony whines at him and Steve sighs.“Fine, be like that.”

He feels himself being lifted over Steve’s shoulder and Tony laughs, pressing a kiss to Steve’s ass. “Steve! Put me down,” It’s a cheap mockery of his usual whine and Steve shakes his head. 

“Hmm… no, I like the view.”

They both crack up and Tony smiles as wide as the Hudson when Steve puts him down and winks at him. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I married you.” 

“Joke’s on you,” Steve says and fingers his wedding ring. As if Tony would ever get rid of Steve. As if Tony had the _ choice. _ If Tony wanted to get rid of Steve he wouldn’t be in bed for the third day in a row, laying on Steve’s chest while he read and letting his fever pull him back into sleep, only a few hours after waking. If Tony wanted to get rid of Steve he’d convince his heart to stop being so happy that Steve was putting in all this effort to be with Tony, to guide Tony through this illness. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys, I hope you liked this fic! If you did please leave a kudos or a comment, they really make my day and I love hearing feedback from you guys. I hope you guys are having a nice night :)
> 
> Thanks,   
> C


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